


The Most Terrible Fear

by LananiA3O



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Major character death - Freeform, graphic descriptions of severe burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 08:30:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12055176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LananiA3O/pseuds/LananiA3O
Summary: Batman gets injected with fear gas when he and Robin try to stop Scarecrow after he sets a library on fire. He returns to the manor, deciding to isolate himself until the fear toxin has been purged from his blood stream and he can trust his own mind again. It turns out to be the worst decision he has ever made, as his most terrible fear comes true...





	The Most Terrible Fear

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the very spontaneous mini event "Batfam Content Wars". This story is sort of an AU to my previous story "A Father's Fear" and was also inspired by the following panel:  
> http://cerusee.tumblr.com/post/159197742472/lananiscorner-cerusee-prettybatgirl
> 
> Trigger warning: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. GRAPHIC. I cannot stress this enough.
> 
> For status updates, writing trivia, fandom/fanfiction/writing related questions and occasional random ramblings, please visit my tumblr: http://lananiscorner.tumblr.com/

_It is just the toxin. Just the toxin. Just the toxin. Not real. Just toxin. Not real. NOT real._

_Bruce repeated the words over and over in his head as he headed out of the inferno with a nine-year-old girl in his arms. She was coughing up a storm, most likely from smoke inhalation, but in his head it wasn’t her voice. In his head, it was Jason. He didn’t see a little girl with strawberry blonde pig tails and a button nose. He saw Jason, with his coal black hair and his pale blue eyes. But it wasn’t him. It was just his mind playing tricks. Bruce took comfort in that._

She was the thirty-sixth child he had pulled from the burning library. All of them had come here today as part of Open Book Day, a Wayne-sponsored program suggested by Jason, which allowed homeless children to get free access to the library for a full day and night. It had been a success in every way imaginable.

Until Scarecrow had arrived and set fire to the building. Bruce had taken a dart full of Crane’s latest toxin that had been destined for Jason, which had set him on a perpetual loop of endless worries. Had he really gotten everyone out? Was Robin, Jason, really safe? Had he gotten Scarecrow out? Had he saved everyone?

Gordon waited by the line of police cars in front of the burning building and Bruce kept one eye on him, one on the ambulance, as he took his first deep breath of smoke-less air in god knew how long. It felt like an eternity. It probably hadn’t been twenty minutes.

“Did we get everyone out?”

“Yes.” Gordon said. “That was the last one. Good job, Batman.”

 _No,_ Scarecrow’s voice whispered in his mind, mingled with his own. _There are still people in there. You are a failure._

He grappled up onto the nearest roof and started running, hoping that the distance he put between himself and the building would help his mind, but it didn’t. The voice kept on nagging and nagging and nagging. All around him, a dozen ghosts of a burning Robin screamed at him for his failure. Bruce tapped the audio-only comms unit on his gauntlet and took a deep breath.

“Robin. I was hit by Scarecrow’s fear toxin. I will return to the cave to synthesize an antidote. Process the last three crime scenes we talked about, then go home.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. God only knew what horrible, nightmarish screams his fear-gas-poisoned mind would turn Jason’s snarky reply into. Instead, Batman activated the remote guidance of the Batmobile, got in, and headed for the manor. The ghostly silhouette of a charred boy with empty eye sockets and a melted red vest sat next to him, blaming him every meter of the way. Bruce bit his lip and scowled.

Alfred was waiting for him, already working on the blood sample Bruce had sent him right after the dart had hit him, and trying to synthesize the antidote. He attempted to talk to Bruce as he sat down and joined him, but Bruce blocked it out. There were already enough whispers in his head. Whispers of dead children. Whispers of dead Robins. Whispers of Alfred dying. Whispers of something horrible having happened to Batgirl or to Nightwing. He had to block it out. He had to, or he would go insane. He had to ignore the nightmarish burns on Alfred’s face, on Jason’s face, that were not there, because Alfred was alright and Jason was not even in the cave. He knew that for a fact.

But, God, did it _feel_ real!

He wasn’t sure whether it took minutes or hours, but at last the Batcomputer produced an antidote. Bruce injected himself and took a deep breath. According to the calculations, it would still take several hours for the toxin to be fully purged from his blood stream.

“I’m going to bed, Alfred.” He blocked the butler’s attempt of approaching him with a cup of tea that looked like blood and shook his head. “No disturbances.”

***

Bruce wasn’t sure if maybe his compromised mind had turned the words “no disturbances” into something else before they had left his mouth or if the meaning of those words had changed since he had last used them, but sure as prayers ended in ‘amen’, Alfred knocked on his door just past sunrise. Bruce muttered a quick ‘no disturbances’ once more, then reached for the military-grade ear plugs and the paracetamol he kept in his night stand for times like these and swallowed the pills dry. In the back of his pounding head, Scarecrow’s voice still scraped against his skull.

_You let him die, Batman. You let him die. He’s dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. And it is all your fault._

_Yeah,_ Jason’s blackened corpse said from where he perched on the window sill _. You let me die._

Clearly this antitoxin wasn’t working as well as hoped.

***

Dick was the first to call him. Bruce saw his number on the display, right beneath the numbers 10:24 and rejected the call. The world was still fuzzy around the edges. Jason still sat on the window sill. Scarecrow was still whispering in his ear.

_You let him die, Batman. You let him die. He’s dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. And it is all your fault._

He was in no condition to talk to anyone.

***

Dick called him a total of six times. Barbara called him twice. Alfred knocked thrice. Sometime just past noon, everyone finally seemed to give up. Bruce sighed in relief as his head hit the pillow once more. And, still, Scarecrow was whispering.

_You let him die, Batman. You let him die. He’s dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. And it is all your fault._

The thought of visiting Scarecrow in whatever cell Jim had put him in and breaking out a few of his teeth seemed strangely tempting today.

***

By the time Alfred woke him at sundown, his head had finally cleared. Scarecrow’s voice was gone and so was the ghostly vision of his dead son and his headache. As a matter of fact, Bruce hadn’t felt this well in months. He smiled as he went for the door – When had he locked that? – and opened it.

Alfred was waiting for him on the other side, tray in hand, and his face was serious like never before, and Bruce instantly knew that something was wrong. Alfred never looked so... grim. The butler walked past him, set the tray with the omelet, the pain blockers, and the black coffee down next to his bed, and turned to leave.

“Master Todd did not return to the manor last night,” Alfred said, displeasure clear in his voice. “Master Grayson and Miss Gordon tried to contact you in this matter as well. We have been looking for him all day, but we have not been able to find him.”

Dread suddenly sparked in his gut. Bruce took a hesitant sip from the coffee, but it tasted like ash in his mouth. “Why did you not wake me?”

“I tried.” Alfred’s eyebrows narrowed. “You told me you had had another fight earlier in the night and Master Todd had probably just decided to spend the day somewhere else again. Then you locked the door.”

Bruce racked his brain trying to remember. He _had_ had a fight with Jason. Not the worst one, comparatively, but still a fight. About an hour before the entire business with Scarecrow. And usually, nights like that ended with Jason escaping for a day or two. It was the most likely explanation.

“It wouldn’t be the first time Jason disappeared on us.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Alfred agreed. “But it would be the first time he missed his first-Sunday-of-the-month sparring session with Master Grayson.”

Dread blossomed into fear. Bruce felt the mug slide from his grip and barely managed to set it down just in time. He didn’t even look at the food or the pills, instead crossing his room and the hall in quick strides. As he went down the hidden stairwell behind the clock, the nagging voice of doubt returned to his head. This time, it was his own. When he arrived at the cave, Nightwing and Batgirl were waiting for him.

“Well, look who finally graces us with his presence!” Dick sneered at him from his perch on top of the Batcomputer server tower. Barbara’s eyes were glued to the screen.

“This is my sixth attempt of calling him on any and all lines we use, including his private cell, and I can’t get a hold of him.” Her blue eyes were filled with worry as she turned to him. “Bruce, what the hell happened between the two of you yesterday?”

“We had a fight.” Bruce put on his suit and joined her at the computer. He tried the lines as well, but the only thing that greeted him was silence.

Then, at precisely six o’clock, his emergency line to GCPD suddenly started beeping.

“Batman,” Gordon’s voice was deep and heavy with something akin to regret over the crackle of the radio. “I am so sorry. There’ something you’ve got to see. Meet me at the morgue in Burnley.”

The line was cut, and Bruce felt his stomach turn to ice. Dick and Barbara were in front of him the moment he turned to head for the Batmobile. Dick’s eyes screamed bloody murder.

“We are coming with you, Bruce. Don’t you dare tell us to stay here.”

***

The drive to Burnley felt like an eternity, even though Bruce knew it only took twenty-two minutes. Nightwing was fast on his heels on his motorcycle, with Batgirl clinging to his back, but that didn’t change the fact that the seat next to Bruce was empty. Jason wasn’t here. Jason hadn’t come home.

 _No, Bruce._ He swallowed hard. It must be the fear toxin. _Maybe some lingering after-effect. That building was empty and you know it._

Jim waited for him by the front entrance. He frowned at the sight of the two additional vigilantes trailing after him, but there was no frustration or anger in his eyes.

It was sympathy.

“You kids might want to stay up here,” James Gordon said as he moved to stop them. “It’s not a pretty sight.”

“With all due respect, Commissioner,” Dick snarled through his teeth. “We’ve all been doing this for years. We know what ‘not pretty’ looks like. Let us through.”

Barbara nodded, careful not to look directly at her father. Bruce frowned. “The Commissioner is ri—“

“B, don’t make me punch your teeth in right in front of these cops, okay?” Dick’s hand curled into fists. “We. Are. Going. No discussion.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Gordon’s voice reeked of sadness. Bruce felt the painful knot in his stomach grow cold as the air in the basement of the morgue.

 It was a long way down to the bottom of the building. Throughout the hallways, hardly any of the cops or morticians on duty looked at them. Those that did looked as if someone had told them the apocalypse was about to happen within the next few minutes. Bruce switched to the night vision of his cowl. The analysis of pretty much everyone on duty came back as ‘nervous’ or ‘distressed’.

The morgue was as cold, bleak, and haunting as it had been the first time Bruce had set foot in there, the night Joker had hired eight assassins to kill Batman. Except for the chief coroner and the commissioner, everyone fled from the room as soon as he arrived. In the middle of the sterile hall, a body lay on a cold slab, covered by a heavy cloth and flanked by the coroner and the commissioner on the right. Bruce took his place to the left, while Barbara and Dick waited, just two feet from the foot of the slab.

“Wrecking crew found him in the library just an hour ago,” Commissioner Gordon said quietly and his voice sounded like he had just swallowed a bucket of tears. Bruce scowled at him.

“You said we got everyone out.”

“Everyone we knew of.” Gordon admitted, before turning back to Nightwing and Batgirl. “You really shouldn’t be here.”

Bruce had enough. Judging from the way Dick and Barbara bristled at the remark, so did they. He reached for the upper rim of the sheet and peeled it back quickly.

The hair had been burnt off completely. The face was a black ruin of meat burnt to the bone, sunken, deformed, and eyeless. The only smooth places were where the equally black Kevlar of the mask had melted and fused to the flesh. The molten vest looked like blood pooling in between the craters of the charred chest. Above his heart, the darker spot where a black patch with a yellow R had sat was no longer readable.

“No.”

Bruce felt the ground sway beneath his feet and gripped the edge of the table hard, while forcing shallow breaths in and out of his lungs. It didn’t work. If felt like his lungs were locked in a vice, like someone was clawing at his throat and squeezing it shut from the inside. This couldn’t be. This blackened _husk_ could not be his Robin, his son, his Jason. This had to be some other boy. Maybe one of the kids had dressed up as Robin. Maybe Scarecrow had planted this kid as a decoy. It couldn’t be Jason. This was just a lingering effect of the toxin. Jason was probably somewhere out there, brooding in solitude while cursing Bruce under his breath. He had to be.

On a screen on a nearby desk, a set of negative matches for DNA and dental records glared at him mockingly, almost as if death itself was daring him to take a closer look. Bruce nodded in the direction of the machine.

“Are those samples—“

“Yes.”

That was all the answer he needed. Bruce almost jumped at the computer, inserted the SD card that would him gain direct access, and sent the data through his own system. The DNA search result came back to his own display almost immediately.

_Positive match found: Jason Peter Todd_

The ball of ice in his stomach spread, and suddenly he was frozen. He wanted to scream, but he had no voice. He wanted to weep, but he had no tears. He wanted to move, but he had no muscles. He was locked in this moment, this terrifying moment as he stared back at the burnt corpse on the slap, as the realization hit him with the force of an Urbarail train car.

Jason was dead. Robin was dead.

 _Dead. Dead. Dead._ Scarecrow’s voice chanted in his head. _And it is all your fault!_

“No.” Dick shook his head, but Bruce knew it was too late. “Don’t say it!”

The short, anguished cry that escaped Barbara’s throat pierced the silence of the morgue like a scorching needle. He watched her shake her head, then turn and run as fast she could, knocking over an unfortunate guard who had come to see what the noise was all about. Dick took Bruce’s place by the slab. One of his hands was pressed softly to the burnt head – _Robin’s head_ , Scarecrow whispered – the other resting on the molten R on his chest.

“Did he—“ Dick’s voice broke, and with it Bruce’s heart. Dick closed his eyes, took a deep breath and swallowed the tears that were starting to well up. “Did he suffer long?”

The coroner shook his head. “He died of asphyxiation long before the fire got to him. And he was probably delirious from oxygen depravation an carbon monoxide poisoning long before that.”

Dick nodded. His voice was heavy and old, as if he had just come out of a lifetime of grief and torture. “Thank you. I’ll go check on Batgirl.” Even through the tears clouding his eyes, the fury was unmistakable as he turned around to face Bruce. “You and I will talk later, B.”

Bruce watched, still frozen on the spot, as Dick started stalking out of the morgue, his head held high and his hands clenched into fists. Jim watched him go, then motioned the coroner to leave and turned to Bruce once more.

“I’ll give you a minute alone with him. We can talk about the... technicalities... later.”

 _Technicalities... paperwork, claiming the body, a funeral..._ Bruce knew what it meant, but his mind couldn’t process any of it. As his feet finally started to obey again and he finally managed to go back to Jason’s side, all he could think of was how grossly unfair it was.

Fourteen months and six days. That was all the time they had had. Fourteen months and six days since a thirteen-year-old had tried to steal his tires. Fourteen months and six days of happiness and grief, of progress and frustration, of pride and disappointment, of laughter and anger. Fourteen months and six days in which the manor had felt a little warmer and his life had felt a little more meaningful and, no matter how many fights they had, no matter who much Jason sometimes made him rage and worry, his soul had felt a little lighter, knowing that there was a meaning to it all, that he was not alone in this world and neither was Jason.

Fourteen months. Six days. It was too little too late. It wasn’t fair.

Worst of all, it was his fault. He thought back to how he had rescued the last girl from the burning building, how he had decided against hailing Jason on the comms, because he had been so sure that all he would get would be a fear-gas-induced nightmare of Jason crying for help with his last breath.

_Had he?_

Bruce tasted bile in his throat as the thought jumped into his brain. Had Jason been crying for help with his last, dying breath? Had he cried out for Batman, for Bruce? Had Jason tried to hail him and he just hadn’t noticed? Had he been in there, faltering from too much carbon dioxide and soot in his lungs, desperately calling for help that would never come? Or had Scarecrow gotten to him, too? Had he run into the building, thinking that Bruce was in there and that he had to get him out? Had he decided not to hail Bruce, because he had thought Bruce wouldn’t notice? Or worse: that he wouldn’t care?

“Robin...”

He mirrored Dick’s gesture almost instinctively. Jason was gone. His son was gone. Bruce felt the dread and fear inside his gut make way for a pain that was so sharp, sudden, and persistent, it felt as if someone was electrocuting him. The tears came soon enough and they burnt in his eyes as the reality of the situation finally hit him with full force. He had failed the one person who needed him the most when he had needed him the most. Jason was gone and with every second that passed the thought dug a hole deeper into his heart.

“Jason…”

Bruce leaned down carefully and kissed the top of the burnt head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

For the first time in three decades, Bruce wept.


End file.
